


For Want of A Nail in the Stone Mill - Westeros (Game of Thrones)

by ThatOne749



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 23:51:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13647024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatOne749/pseuds/ThatOne749
Summary: Essentially, what if, for whatever reason, Edmure Tully did NOT engage in the 'Folly of the Mill';What effect would this have on the Northern Campaign and wider battles and political machinations?Some events will remain the same, others will change beyond belief.





	For Want of A Nail in the Stone Mill - Westeros (Game of Thrones)

**Author's Note:**

> For Want of a Nail is similar to the butterfly effect, i.e. with one small change (such as a single nail), what would change? How dramatic would this change be?  
> Multi-chapter fic, focussing on multiple POV characters in Westeros predominately (Essos will be my next work, this will be in parallel with this one).

Fanfic GoT

 

It galled Edmure. A rusty dagger in the gut would be less painful. What sort of 'Lord' couldn't even ride out to protect his own lands, lands where _his_ peolple were fighting, screaming, _dying_ …

Gods damn orders, he knew. He swore an oath, just as many riverlords and their children did that night, to fight for Robb Stark, _his own nephew, who NOW gave orders to hide like frightened children behind their castle walls_ whilst _he_ was glorying himself and his Northern Lords in the Westerlands.

 

Family. Duty. Honour.

 

Those three words, _his_ words, were all that were keeping him from bloodying the lannister forces at Stone Mill. His _Family_ had given an order, he was bound by his _Duty and Honour_ to carry out as a subject to his King, that mattered more than his _Duty_ to his people. Of course nobles mattered more than smallfolk, so these orders mattered more than the peasentry, but still,

 

Glory....

 

It whispered to him seductively, thoughts of _respect, cheering smallfolk,_ of _no more_ Ser Floppyfish, of how his father, uncle, and now _nephew_ all gained glory whilst he _Held Rivverrun_.

 

A roar broke through his chambers, followed by the sound of a full goblet of Arbor Gold, a plate, shoe and prayer wheel all crashing, in short succession, against the wall of his solar.Any nearby servents quickly remembered other duties that auspiciously took them away from the area surrounding their liege Lord's chambers.

 

The raging, crasing, shouting self pity of a pampered lordling denied his want, but not brave enough, or perhaps smart enough not to go against direct orders was, for the few brave souls that remained about their duties near their lord's solar, not an uncommon sound throughout the life of Edmure Tully within Riverrun.

 

Some of the smallfolk, rightly or wrongly, shared their lord's … _ire,_ about leaving the lannisters, and more importantly the Mountain, unmolested, especially those unbloodied, whose heads were filled with song, swordplay and heros, rather than battlefields, nightmares and loss, as the greybeards and eldars were.

 

Of course, lords and knights, sharing this sentiment, and perfectly capable of riding out themselves to, no doubt, cut through the lannister scum, avenge their homeland, forge their own songs and tales of bravery, were, or knew of, the Wolf King's command. _Hold._

 

Many smallfolk called Robb Stark, the 'Young Wolf', but to the River lords, who did not wish to be seen following a _boy_ preffered the epithet 'Wolf King'. Many lords had listened to, and maybe embelished, tales of their Northern King, who was half a Tully, this was crucial to mention in songs south of the Neck, riding into battle, twenty score hardened Northmen, with wolves at their command, tearing the Lannisters and the Kingslayer asunder, faster than a winter chill, more teriffying than a wolf pack, as unstoppable as the winter blizzards... _that_ was their king.

 

More fantastic tales were woven by a dozen score smallfolk, spreading throughout the Riverlands, of _their_ king, who smote the lannister forces besieging riverrun, a warrior king, like Robert Baratheon. And every child knew what happened that last time a warrior rode against the incumbent king on the Iron Throne.

 

 

Edmure knew this, he knew that a good portion of his men, and smallfolk, saw his _nephew_ as the next Robert, Daeron, hells, even _Aegon_ was bandied about by the most drunken smallfolk.

 

The toasts, songs, praises, all mentioned _Northmen_ , maybe some Riverlords. But _NONE called on_ Edmure or the Tullys, save mention of Robb _Stark_ saving them, and that they had exchanged a Southern King for a Northern one.

 

The aforementioned Tully, whose solar now looked as if the King's Own Direwolf had tore through it, gave one last bellow of rage against the _unfairness_ of it all, before sinking down onto the one chair he, by more luck than design, had not destroyed.

 

Yes, Edmure mused, _the last time I lead men, they were routed. I need glory, but not so much so that I will take my routed lords to face Tywin and the Mountain._

 

And there was the warts-and-all truth. His lords were too recently broken to effectively fight, and to send even veterens against the Lions and Mountain would be folly if the numberes were not matched or the commander was not some mythical _Daeron_.Oh how painfully he was reminded of this fact not too long ago.

 

Edmure could have sat there, sullen and moody, destroying the remains of his solar, _and what little respect I have amongst the smallfolk,_ but he was painfully reminded of his Duty when a young page called out from behind the oaken door.

 

“My Lord Edmure... the Riverlords wish to speak to … your... Lordship? As a matter of urgency.”

 

Seven be _damned_ , even the bloody pages and squires were fumbling over what to call him since _Robb Stark_ was proclamed king, and _his sworn Lords_ summoned him like some _servant_.

 

Ah well, time to get this farce over with. But on _his_ terms.

 

“Summon those lords to _my_ solar, I will meet with them there.” He fumed, letting out his 'Lord Voice' as Cat had once called it when they were young. Probably cause the damn green page to shit himself.

 

After all, _no one_ summoned the Lord of Riverrun, or acting Lord, _within his own gods damned castle._

 

“A-aye m'lord.” The sound of cloth shoes slapping on the flagstones at least told Edmure _someone_ knew to take his position as it should be.

 

 


End file.
